


Bite Me

by islandgirl_246



Series: Just You and Me [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accident, Actor Stiles, First Meetings, Humour, Lawyer Laura Hale, Lawyer Peter Hale, M/M, Peter-centric, cop Derek, cop boyd, cop isaac
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 04:57:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11154711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/islandgirl_246/pseuds/islandgirl_246
Summary: “When he stepped forward, he finally believed the universe was out to get him this morning because lying on the ground, arguing with the curly-haired man who was fussing like an Agony Aunt, and fast attracting a growing crowd, was Stiles Stilinski – the 20-something award-winning actor, philanthropist and extreme sports aficionado himself. Peter had almost killed a mega superstar heartthrob . . .Fuck his life!”





	Bite Me

**Author's Note:**

> So it's rated mature because I'm always iffy about rating swearing as Teen anything. But beyond that there's really nothing in here to squick anyone out. I just needed to write something because my life was feeling a little not my own for a bit.

“Shit!” Peter said with feeling, thumping a hand against the steering wheel in frustration. He was going to be late . . . that is, if he got there at all, and he could not afford not to get there. Judge Martin was not known for having a soft spot for lateness, or, worse yet, for Peter. In fact, she had a distinct dislike for Peter.

The announcer on the radio made yet another wisecrack about the gridlock downtown and Peter gritted his teeth, wanting to reach through the dashboard, into the stereo and strangle the little prick. His anxiety was climbing by the minute but he dared not turn the station off because it was his only way to know what was happening up ahead. Just then the car next to him veered right through an alley and he felt the immediate rush of adrenaline. If he could follow the clear path before it closed again, maybe his digital navigator could direct him from there.

Without a second thought he jerked the steering wheel right . . . and heard a yell. Seconds later it was followed by a thump into the rear end of his high priced sedan, a clatter and a yelp of “Owwww!”, followed by “FUCK!”

And Peter closed his eyes. _This couldn’t be happening. It really couldn’t be happening. Hadn’t his morning already gone to shit?_

++++++

It had all started at about 6, when he got up for his morning yoga . . . Well, to be fair, it had started the night before, but the morning – morning turned an iffy situation into a fuck up.

He did a half-hour of pilates before Simone stepped out of the upstairs bedroom and proceeded down, with a pout. Immediately he knew it was not going to be a good breakfast.

He rushed a towel over his face, shoulders and arms, and walked by, trying to drop a quick peck on her cheek, but she turned her head. _So that’s how it’d be?_ He sighed and continued upstairs to the shower.

By the time he made it down 25 minutes later, dressed in his crisp grey and maroon – colours that brought out the blue of his eyes – she was sitting at the kitchen island, tapping away at her mobile, back stiff.

Peter poured himself a bowl of cereal, tilted the milk carton to get the literal very last drop. He raised a brow at Simone, eyes darting down to her bowl which was swimming with the white, tasty cereal-hydrating goodness. He sighed again. This was why he didn’t do relationships. They were messy, filled with pointless arguments and negotiations. In fact, they weren’t even in a fucking relationship. They were little more than fuck-buddies.

“So you won’t come,” she said finally, smacking the phone on the counter. It was a continuation of their argument the night before – after the sex.

“Nothing’s changed from our discussion last night. I have work, Simone.” Plus the only thing he hated more than relationships were family gatherings. They were a one-way ticket to hell. Family gatherings inevitably meant malicious relatives with officious questions like, ‘How did you two meet?’ or ‘How long have you two been ‘dating’?’ – as if a man that looked like Peter and a woman who looked like Simone, and knew she was hotter than hot, was one based on dating schedules. And then there was of course, the dreaded, ‘So when are you going to settle down and make an honest girl out of my daughter . . . niece . . . favourite cousin’, whatever. So Peter didn’t do family gatherings and certainly not with fuck-buddies.

He’d told her when they started that it would never be more than this. So what was this all about?

“I’ve told my family about you, Peter. They want to meet you.”

Heavy sigh. “I don’t know why you did that, Simone. I never agreed to anything.”

“You know what? Fuck you, Peter Hale!” For a brief second Peter thought she would send the full bowl of milk flying into his face. He was sure he saw the moment the thought flickered through her mind and he felt dread coil in his stomach at the thought of having to change his suit. _He looked good in this suit, dammit._ Instead she shook her head, grabbed her purse and made for the door.

He was certain the apartment below heard the resounding crash of the door as it slammed into the frame; the jolt sending the picture hanging to the right crashing onto the antique table beneath it, causing Peter to grimace. But if that wasn’t devastation enough – and he could see the scratch from even here, the shattered picture pushed the equally antique vase tumbling to the floor where it exploded into tiny 14th century Chinese ceramic pieces. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

Peter thought of sending her the bill, but the piece had taken him almost a year to acquire. She couldn’t afford to pay for it furthermore replace it, and he was tired sighing. He took his phone and sent a quick message to his cleaning team who were due in today anyway for their regular run of the penthouse.

He breathed deeply and tried to centre himself. Simone was replaceable. This case was not.

He grabbed his bag, checking his watch and then realised he couldn’t find his keys. By the time he located them, another 20 minutes had passed and he was left in no doubt as to why they’d been missing in the first place.

_The bitch._

++++++

So by the time someone slammed into the back of his car, Peter was already running late for court, and at the end of his rather thin patience this morning.

With resignation he opened his car door and saw a mop of dark curly hair leaning fussily over a groaning man, who was prone on the street. _He didn’t have time for this._ Even as he looked up, the gap in the traffic had already closed up. He’d lost his chance. He glanced at the injured man again and weighed the penalties of leaving the scene of a crime. Surely he could argue his way out of this if it came to that – unless of course he ended up in front of Judge Martin, then, well then he was surely headed to prison.

Peeping at his watch again he had to admit that he was officially screwed. He wouldn’t make it to court and if he left this scene now, he had no doubt that Judge Martin would make it her personal pleasure to make sure he came up before her, whenever the police caught up with him.

“You got somewhere better to be?” an indignant voice grated, and he turned to catch the eye of an obviously irate woman, whom it seemed was the driver of the vehicle behind him and quite clearly an eyewitness to the whole ordeal who’d vacated her own vehicle for a better vantage point. An irate witness who would undoubtedly help Martin put him away, by the look on her face.

So he was stuck.

“You haven’t even checked to see if you killed him,” she all but screamed. “You could have killed him!” _And why did her voice keep rising? It was clear the man – (it was a man, wasn’t it?) wasn’t dead. Dead men didn’t moan._

“Oh my God!” someone else said. And for the first time Peter really took in the scene before him. At least five people were holding up cell phones recording the spectacle. Ok, time to kick his charm into gear to avoid a lawsuit.

But when he stepped forward, he finally believed the universe was out to get him this morning because lying on the ground, arguing with the curly-haired man who was fussing like an Agony Aunt, and fast attracting a growing crowd, was Stiles Stilinski – the 20-something award-winning actor, philanthropist, and extreme sports aficionado himself. Peter had almost killed a mega superstar heartthrob – and word was apparently spreading because the road was now packed with gawkers. Gawkers who were recording every second of his humiliation.

_FUCK his life!_

++++++

The speed with which police, an ambulance and at least three news vans got there, even in gridlocked traffic, was nothing short of a Boston miracle.

In minutes, police were setting up a perimeter, clearing the huge crowd of spectators back and showing a deference to the actor that Peter hated to admit he envied, especially given the looks of death currently being thrown his way.

And as if his day could get worse, swaggering through the tape and heading in his direction was none other than his nephew. Derek cut a handsome picture – scruff on full display, dark shades jauntily hiding eyes that Peter had no doubt were currently judging him even from that distance.

“How?” Derek drew up next to him, and his partner, the blond jackass, grinned at Peter.

“He crashed into me,” Peter said, but in hushed tones. He was already hated enough in this crowd without adding fuel to the fire.

“You do realise who that is, right?” Isaac said, with no little amount of glee.

Peter dealt him a droll glare, turning back to Derek. “Can you get me out of here?”

Derek shook his head. “Not a chance. Besides, Laura already called, Judge Martin was on a rampage this morning about your missing status in her courtroom. So it’s not like you could do any worse. In fact, I would recommend NOT leaving the scene of a crime and NOT adding to the list of things you could be charged with.

“Jesus, Peter, what were you thinking? And of all the rotten fucking luck. The firm doesn’t need this negative publicity right now. Do you know this is already online? TMZ has already run a story, claiming the severity of Stilinski’s injuries are unknown. Fuck, Peter!”

“Again, he ran into me.” At this point he was grinding his teeth together.

Isaac chuckled, “You might wanna **_not_** lead with that when Boyd questions you. Just a little friendly advice.”

“Kiss my ass, Lahey.” Peter grated, finally having had enough of the jerk.

“Mr. Hale,” a deep voice said behind them.

The three turned to face Detective Boyd and his face said he had heard that last ditty and was anything but pleased with ‘the perp’. In fact, Peter would bet the man would rather dispense with the questioning and just break out the cuffs right now. “Hey, Boyd,” he tried. But all that did was add a few more furrows to Detective Vernon Boyd’s brow.

_Yup, it was going to be a fucking long day._

++++++

By the time he got through with the grilling, which Detective Boyd had insisted happen at the station – just because he could – Peter was seething. Laura had arrived to represent her uncle and they’d gotten into repeated arguments, until Laura had growled at him and told him to, “Just shut the fuck up and let me handle this!”

Peter had wanted to slam his head, repeatedly, into the nearest wall – did he mention, **_repeatedly_**?

They left the station to be thronged by flashing and rolling cameras, and inquisitive reporters. As per instructions, Peter allowed Laura to say a few brief words about it being an accident and really no one’s fault but they were wishing Mr. Stilinski the best and had already been told he’d been seen and released from hospital with minimal injuries.

This of course, was news to Peter. When had she gathered that information? But even before his brain could fully settle on the question, he chastised himself for it. This was Laura they were talking about. He’d taught her everything she knew, so of course she was brilliant at her job. Unfortunately at the moment that job was representing her wayward uncle.

So he capitulated to feeling condemned already before the heavy media presence.

++++++

When he sank into his sofa an hour later, after pouring himself a stiff drink, Peter was ready to crawl into bed and start the day afresh. But the clock told him it was just gone 2 p.m.

Laura had refused to let him come to the office, telling him to go home and stay there ‘til he heard from her. With glee reflecting in her eyes, even if not on her face, she’d reminded him he’d once warned her never to let him represent himself if he ever was on the wrong side of the law. Peter had no recollection of such a conversation and challenged her on it, sure that it had to be at the infernal New Year’s Eve party the firm had thrown where he got sopping wasted. It was yet another reason he didn’t do family gatherings. Family drove him to drink more often than not.

Nevertheless, she’d said something about reaching out to the Stilinski camp, his publicist, lawyer, somebody, and trying to smooth things over.

Thank God, Peter lived in a private building with security and a doorman, because there were reporters camped out downstairs as well. _Could his life get any worse?_

Hmmm. Knowing it wasn’t a question he could answer and like the sucker for punishment he undoubtedly was, he took the control and flicked the television on, getting up to go refresh his now empty glass. _Where had his scotch gone anyway?_ He’d poured barely a finger when a voice on the screen almost made him drop the tumbler.

“He’s a narcissist. It’s always about him and him alone. I mean he knocked that man off the bike today and was already thinking about how he could get out of it. It’s despicable!” Simone exclaimed to the television reporter.

How the fuck did they find her so fast? And what the hell did she know about the situation anyway? She wasn’t there, and as of this morning had no connection to Peter.

“And you know this because you’ve been in a relationship with Attorney Peter Hale for how long?”

“Almost six months,” she had the audacity to spout.

“The fuck you say!?” Peter exploded and caught himself seconds before he would have sent the glass sailing into a nearby wall. He knew this was going to come back to bite him in the ass. She was clearly seeking her 15 minutes.

His phone rang.

He tossed back his head, closing his eyes tightly and exhaling when he saw it was his niece calling.

“Who is she?” Laura asked without preamble.

“Someone I was screwing for a while.”

“As in past tense?”

“Aren’t they all?” he asked, tossing back the contents of the glass.

“I need details.”

So he gave them to her.

“You don’t do anything the easy way do you?” Laura hung up.

Within an hour, all of Boston was tweeting about the would-be gold digger who was rejected by lawyer Peter Hale and then tried to make herself famous off the Stiles Stilinski incident.

The memes were not kind.

Even knowing he wasn’t out of the hot water yet, Peter scrolled away on the laptop balanced precariously on his legs, smiling and sipping his scotch.

++++++

A blaring phone woke him next morning. He groaned when he realised the throbbing in his head was a hangover from all the liquor last night. The empty decanter beside him told the tale. In fact, he hadn’t even made it to bed, lying rumpled on his couch. He grimaced at the condition of his once favourite suit.

“Get to the office for 9. And Peter, don’t you dare be late. We’re meeting with Stilinski’s people.” His niece hung up again. This was his most hated habit of hers – she was always short on the niceties. She was too much like him that was the problem.

He rolled over to drag his carcass from the sofa to begin putting himself together. At least he hadn’t been charged, yet. Boyd made it clear that it was far from over. As he’d been leaving the station, Isaac had whispered about Boyd being a Stilinski fan. Just Peter’s luck.

++++++

What Peter wasn’t expecting when he walked into his office just before 9 a.m. was to find Stilinski himself pacing the length of the glass panelled conference room, gesticulating wildly with palm and fingers of his left hand which at the moment was held prone in a sling (however one manages that), while talking on his phone.

He should have known by the sheer amount of media out front. They were probably all waiting to find out how much Stilinski was going to sue Hale & Hale for and whether the sum would shut them down. From everything Peter had read in between healthy swallows of scotch the evening before, which only led to further imbibing, Stilinski’s following was a force to reckon with on social media, and his lawyers were first-rate sharks. The last company that tried to shaft him on an endorsement deal could well attest to the force of the Stilinski brand.

Peter didn’t realise he was staring until Laura cleared her throat behind him. “You’re actually on time.”

“I’m always on time,” Peter said vaguely, wondering why he couldn’t stop staring. In the flesh, Stilinski gave off the feeling of compact muscle, endless energy, and damn, he was ripped. The shirt was straining across his expanse of chest, and Peter subconsciously licked his lips.

As if he could feel eyes on him, the man suddenly stopped and turned, looking directly at him and something flashed in his eyes as whiskey met cerulean blues, before the actor’s lips curled upward. He said one last thing into his phone and hung up, raising an eyebrow in Peter’s direction, mirth clear in his expression.

Laura elbowed him to get him moving. “Sorry to keep you all waiting,” she said, entering the room and taking a seat; watching until Peter did the same. A Hale assistant with laptop and notepad at the ready was already waiting at the table, opposite the Stilinski team, prepared to record everything.

Peter also realised at that precise moment that Stilinski was not alone. ‘Curly’ from the accident and two others were seated in the room. _How had he not noticed?_ Peter frowned. Such a mishap was unheard of for him.

“It’s fine,” Stilinski said, still smirking.

“Mr. Stilinski . . .”

“Stiles . . .”

“Excuse me?” Laura frowned.

“My name is Stiles. You call me Mr. Stilinski and I’m looking around for my dad. Stiles is fine.”

“Oh, right. Stiles, I’m Laura Hale and I’m representing my uncle, Peter Hale, whom you’ve already met.”

“Actually, I haven’t,” Stiles smirked again and it was Peter’s turn to frown.

“You haven’t?” Laura glanced sharply at Peter, like he’d forgotten to divulge some nugget of information and would pay for it later. She amused and exasperated him; all his family did.

“Well we really didn’t get a chance. Everything happened so fast and then it just snowballed. I’m sorry by the way.”

Peter was thrown. _He, was sorry?_ “What?!” _Was he accepting responsibility for the accident?_ Peter sat forward.

“Stiles,” the attractive female suit seated to Stiles’ left hissed with a roll of her eyes at what was clearly a deviation from whatever plan they had worked up.

“Ali, please.” Turning back to Peter and Laura he continued wryly, with more than a little self-deprecation, “People tend to think I’m an invalid. I’m a klutz, that much is true, but I’m sturdier than I seem.”

“Still not helping,” the attorney, Ali, said through clenched teeth.

“What I mean to say is that I know how my fans are and I’ve seen the stuff about you, even with the ‘ex-girlfriend’ out of the narrative. I’ve taken steps to make sure they tone it down a bit. No reason why you should be going through that.”

“Even less helpful,” Ali hissed again.

Stiles sighed, quietly, but filled with such long-suffering, that it caught Peter off-guard. He laughed at the sheer coincidence. The pique expressed in the sound was something with which he was very familiar. He’d made it enough times himself.

Stiles’ head snapped up, and Curly, who’d been silent the whole time suddenly looked apprehensive. He tossed quick looks between Stiles and Peter, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“Miss Hale,” the male suit interrupted, “I think we should get down to business.”

“Right, Mr. Parrish,” Laura said, and to Peter’s absolute and utter bafflement, blushed as she glanced down at her papers.

That, it seemed, was enough to make Stiles snicker before he jerked in his seat and cast a look of reproach at Curly. Peter was willing to bet a swift kick had been delivered beneath the cover of the glistening mahogany table. A quick and equally silent conversation of just eyebrows was apparently taking place between Stiles and Curly. Whatever was the conclusion of the match-up, Stiles rolled his eyes and sighed again and Peter held in another inappropriate giggle.

 _Really,_ they had him behaving like an immature teenager, rather than a powerful adult attorney, feared in his professional circles. _It had to stop!_

The lawyers droned on as Peter and Stiles tried not to look at each other and Curly, whose name was he actually knew was Scott something or the other, continued to frown at them both. He refused to think of him as Scott though, Curly or Jaws seemed much more accurate. He really should have that crookedness fixed, though it added something of an appeal to his otherwise fresh-faced countenance. Such innocence was something Peter had no patience for, so Curly could frown as much as he’d like. It would have no impact on the fact that Peter really and suddenly and badly wanted to map every mole he could see on Stilinski’s skin, as well as those he could only guess were hidden amongst his clothing.

So he avoided looking at the man. Laura would not be amused with his boner.

At the hour point, actually, almost on the hour itself, a warbling sound interrupted conversation and Stiles blushed, dropping his uninjured hand to his stomach. Laura look startled, and glanced nervously at Peter. His attorneys look scandalised, but somehow familiar with that particular sound.

“Sorry, I skipped breakfast.”

“Why don’t we order some brunch from Al’s? I’m sure we could all use something to munch on at this point.” With a nod to Laura and a quick glance at Stiles, Peter excused himself to have a few words with one of the assistants, returning once he’d left instructions to order almost the entire menu, with a few additions.

Stiles smiled gratefully in his direction, when he returned to resume his seat, and Curly’s brows furrowed more. It really was becoming tiresome.

++++++

At some point, Peter wasn’t sure where they were in discussions because he’d tuned them out after they began talking press conference and image control, Stiles stood and asked for directions to the gentleman’s room. Peter almost jumped to his feet to show him the way and the faces of everyone in the room scrunched in consternation.

“Oh stop it. I’ve got nothing to run him over with between here and the hallway,” Peter groused, and Laura’s eyes blazed retribution for that comment. Stiles just dissolved into laughter he refused to hold back, delighting Peter more, and Curly pouted.

Peter wondered, and not for the first time, if there was more to their relationship than the mags suggested. Was Curly Stiles’ lover perhaps? They certainly seemed to go everywhere together and Stilinski held nothing back about his preference for affection from the male gender.

As the door disappeared in the wake of their procession down the hallway, Stiles cleared his throat. “He’s my best friend. Since we were kids actually.”

Peter looked at him.

“Only my best friend,” he emphasised when Peter said nothing.

The lawyer’s brows went up as he pushed the door into the firm’s bathroom and held it open for the man to precede his entrance. “And that’s important because . . .?”

Stiles smirked, rolled his eyes, sighed again loudly to a chamber echo. Seeming to make up his mind he pressed a firm hand into Peter’s chest, enough to surprise him so that he stumbled back into the wall at his back.

“You’re supposed to be the smarter of the two of us. Keep up, Mr. Hale,” the actor said before his lips met Peter’s surprised ones. Peter moaned and allowed the tongue seeking permission, access to his mouth.

Maybe today would be a better one after all – and he reached out to drag the arousing body closer.

Definitely an improvement on yesterday!

**Author's Note:**

> Leave me a comment or kudo if you enjoyed. Hope you did.


End file.
